I can feel my throat start to close, my palms becoming slick, my tongue drying up, and my forehead turning bright red.
Remember what Kirk said, I tell myself. Be strong for Portia so you can start building a future. Be the man she can admire.
Mother Catherine is tapping the tips of her index fingers against each other, waiting for me to answer, but instead of opening my mouth, I open my wallet, pull out my Official Member of the Human Race card, and hand it to her.
“What’s this?” she says, a bit surprised for the first time during the interview, which feels like a good sign for some reason.
“My high school English teacher made it for me,” I say. “Go ahead. Read it.”
I watch Mother Catherine’s eyes move back and forth as she reads the lines, and a smile creeps its way up her face. “Please explain,” she says when she finishes.
So I tell her all about Mr. Vernon, and what an influence he was on me, and how I never told him thank you and always regretted it. Before I can stop myself, I’m telling her about my heroin addiction and how I finally came to admit I had a problem and then went to rehab, where I used Mr. Vernon as a lighthouse as I got clean, making teaching my ultimate goal. It feels so freeing to say all of this out in the open, in an interview, no less—so much so that I wonder why I didn’t do it earlier. I am killing this interview now. There is a confidence in my voice that I haven’t heard for a long time, and I can see it registering on Mother Catherine’s face, which gives me even more swagger, and so I tell her all about Mr. Vernon being attacked in the classroom and how Portia and I tried to save him.
She interrupts me and says, “Who is this Portia?”
I know that living with a woman out of wedlock is probably still a sin according to the Catholic Church and will probably win me no points with a nun, so I skip that part and say, “She’s my girlfriend. The great love of my life. And I’m going to ask for her hand in marriage just as soon as I’m on my feet financially.”
A look of shock flashes across Mother Catherine’s face, which terrifies me.
“You may find this a rather odd and intrusive question, Mr. Bass,” she says, “but are you willing to tell me Portia’s last name?”
“Why?”
“Just indulge me. Please.”
“It’s Kane. Portia Kane.”
A beat of silence hangs heavy between us before Mother Catherine says, “Does she know you’re here today interviewing for this job? Did you happen to mention my name to her?”
“I left her a note saying I was going on an interview, but I don’t think I mentioned you specifically by name. May I ask why?”
“You may not,” Mother Catherine says. “But you may tell me the end of your story.”
“Excuse me?”
“Whatever became of this Mr. Vernon, the man who changed your life for the better?”
“We don’t know,” I say and then explain how he ditched his own party before it even began, demanded to be left alone, and had the Oaklyn police order us to stay away from him. I tell her about our efforts to find him since, but it’s like he’s vanished. “We tried our best to help Mr. Vernon. We really did,” I add, thinking maybe this wasn’t the best story to tell in an interview for a first-grade position, even if it distracts her from the fact that I am a recovered heroin addict.
She looks down at her desk for a long time. Finally she says, “All humans have access to Jesus Christ—but some of us are a little more connected than others, so to speak. And I’m not shy about my relationship with Jesus.”
I stare back at her. I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“If you are going to work in a Catholic school,” she says, and I wonder if it means I already have the job, “you must get used to people like me talking about God and His mysterious ways. Are you okay with that? Again, we don’t want to invite in any Trojan horses.”
“I am definitely not a Trojan horse,” I say. “I am more than okay with religious talk.”
“Again, I do not suffer liars easily,” she says in a way that makes me believe she’d take the wooden ruler to my knuckles if she had to, and judging by her size, I bet she could break more than a few with a single whack. “You are willing to lead your class in morning prayers, take them to school mass, and participate yourself too?”
“Absolutely,” I say, without hesitation.
“Okay, then,” she says. “You’ll have my decision by eight o’clock tonight.”
“That’s it? The interview is over?” We didn’t talk about my teaching philosophy, all of the ed psych I learned in college, nor did I even pull my portfolio from my leather briefcase.
“You are free to go.”
“Thanks for your time.” I stand, and then add, “I really do love kids. You hire me, and you will not regret it. You’ll have a fully committed teacher.”
“I know.” She nods. “No need for histrionics, Mr. Bass.”
I nod back, wondering what the hell histrionics means, and make my way to the door. But then I turn around, and before I can stop myself, say, “Why were you so interested in my girlfriend’s last name?”
She smiles. “Is it possible for her to be there when I call you with my answer tonight? Tell her Mother Catherine Ebling of St. Therese’s requests the pleasure of speaking with her on the phone.”
“Sure,” I say. “But how do you know Portia?”
“Oh, I do believe that she and I are linked.”